


Wings

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fanart, M/M, Mutant Powers, Nudity, Sleepy Cuddles, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: Enjolras is full of surprises - Grantaire is anything but displeased.





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samyazaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/gifts).



5th December, 1832

 

In theory, of course, Grantaire has always known that some of his fellow men possessed strange abilities, or could be rather outlandish in appearence. Or that these attributes, while often present from birth, sometimes manifested later in life. Why, just six months earlier, the only reason all of his friends successfully evaded death or imprisonment during the days of the June Rebellion, was because Bahorel suddenly discovered his talent for fire-breathing.

What he did not know, was that Enjolras himself belonged to this special fragment of humanity. All he noticed was that these last few weeks Enjolras has all but cut contact with him - and all of their friends. Which was both painful and baffling, especially because since the rebellion he and Grantaire have grown quite close. Very close indeed. What little bit of news Grantaire could squeeze out of Combeferre and Courfeyrac - the only two people who still had some contact with Enjolras - was some vague tale of him being sick, but nothing specific. Grantaire tried visiting once, but was turned away, Enjolras pleading with him through a closed door, begging him not to try and come in.

Grantaire was worried sick. Why would he not allow visitors? Was this strange illness contagious? Would he ever recover? What if he was dying? What if he died without Grantaire knowing, without him having the chance to say goodbye? The thought was unbearable. Having no better ideas, Grantaire penned an awkward but heartfelt letter, wishing for Enjolras to get better soon and slipped it under his door.

After that, three more days went by without as much as a word from Enjolras.

Grantarie was out of his mind with worry, he was getting ready to mourn him when finally, finally Enjolras showed up at the Musain. He was pale and haggard, visibly fragile and a little uncertain on his feet, but otherwise all right. Of course he was flooded with questions, everybody wanting to know at once where and how he had been - and, in Joly's case, if he was still contagious or not. Enjolras reassured everyone that no, he wasn't carrying any diseases, expressed his gratitude for the well-wishes, but otherwise wouldn't say anything, and spent most of the meeting in sullen, exhausted silence.

For once, Grantaire didn't stay for long. Of course he was desperate to talk to Enjolras, to hear his voice, to hold his hand - if only to feel his presence, to know that he was really there. And of course, to see if the tentative new accord they reached over the past few months was still there. But Enjolras was obviously worn out, shaken by his mysterious illness, any deeper discussion of feelings could wait. Not that Grantaire minded, really, he was no friend of deep discussions involving feelings. He left, reassured about his friend's safety, but bursting at the seams with questions and untold confessions.

He had no definite plans for the evening - he borrowed some cheesy novel from Courfeyrac a while ago, he supposed he might as well get on with that. He barely had time to make a fire and light some candles and a lamp, let alone find the book and settle in when someone started to bang on his door. Grantaire rolled his eyes, continuing to look for his novel, but the knocking grew more and more insistent.

'All right, all right, I'm coming' he grumbled.

The moment he opened up the person on the other side pushed past him and rushed inside. Grantaire spun around, ready to fight and yell for help - but there was no need. The intruder was no other than Enjolras. Enjolras, who had already thrown his coat on the ground and was desperately struggling to get his vest off. Grantaire stared, unable to react. On one hand, yes, he had some fantasies about Enjolras coming to his flat and stripping for him, but in these fictitious scenarios he usually looked, well, a little less like he was going to burst into tears or throw up on the spot.

Grantaire snapped out of his reveries when Enjolras, who managed to unbutton his shirt and slide it halfway off his back, but had his arms caught in the sleeves, fell to his knees with a sob. Grantaire lunged forward to catch him - the moment Enjolras' knees hit the floor a pair of huge wings burst out of his back, slamming into Grantaire's bookshelf on one side, into the wall on the other.

For a long moment they remained frozen, Grantaire staring at Enjolras, Enjolras slumped on the floor, wings lying flat around him, disheveled,  half naked, arms caught awkwardly in his shirt, looking smaller and more lost than Grantaire has ever seen him. Slowly, carefully, Grantaire stepped closer an lowered himself onto the floor. He reached out and - slowly, giving his friend enough time to pull away - freed Enjolras' arms and set the crumpled shirt aside.

'Is that what...? Is this why...?'

Enjolras nodded. He tried to say something, but no sound would come out. He hung his head and slowly, slowly pitched forward until his forehead touched Grantaire's shoulder. Somewhat emboldened, Grantaire pulled him closer. Enjolras went without protest, folding his wings out of the way, snuggling into Grantaire's arms. Grantaire ran his hand through Enjolras' hair. When this earned him a small, grateful sigh, he took to gently petting his friend's hair. He would have lied if he claimed he never ever envisioned himself doing just that before, but the wings... somehow he never thought wings would be part of the deal. Somehow.

Now that he had the time, he took a closer look at them: for something so extraordinary and unexpected, they looked perfectly solid, as if they have always been there. No unearthly lights, no angels singing in the background... sure, the way the lamplight reflected on the feathers produced a soft, warm glow, but that was no more than the natural beauty of birds' wings. They were off-white and looked soft and inviting.

'May I touch them?'

Enjolras nodded. Grantaire reached out, licking his lips, trying to conceal his excitement. Enjolras was obviously unhappy about his new set of limbs, no need to antagonise him by cooing over their beauty - not just yet. Grantaire ran his trembling fingers over what he supposed was the wrist. The feathers were as gloriously soft and warm as they looked.

Enjolras sighed despondently against his neck.

'I'm so sorry about this. I thought I finally had them under control, otherwise I wouldn't have left my flat at all.'

'So they just... burst out of your back? Just like that?'

Enjolras nodded.

'At first I had no control over them whatsoever. They would just come and go, there was nothing I could do to stop them. They ruined some of my favourite shirts and vests. Nowdays I can at least keep them in for a while if they are trying to unfold or extend them on will... I'm. I'm trying.'

'Will you learn to fly? They look big enough to carry you.'

Enjolras didn't turn to look at him, but Grantaire could feel his disbelieving glare.

'And have them randomly retract mid-flight? R, I couldn't control them long enough to get home, I will not tempt fate like that!'

'Well, I didn't say you should do it right now. Just give it some time, I'm sure you'll learn to use them. Can you move them?'

Enjolras held up one wing as an answer.

'See? You can do this. Surely you remember how Bahorel used to randomly spit fireballs and cough up smoke after he discovered his power? It was all kinds of inconvenient, dangerous even, but he got the hang of eventually.'

Enjolras said nothing. For a long while, he remained still, leaning against Grantaire. When he spoke up, his voice was small, but hopeful.

'Are you sure?'

'Quite sure. I believe in you.'

***

 

December 25th, 1832 

 


End file.
